


Wives

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Multi, Post canon, gay poly Wives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4056307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toast does not have four sisters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wives

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to bottlecapmermaid for helping me observe that what we all really need is the Wives being happy and in love with each other.

Toast does not have four sisters.

She hates the thought of it. They aren’t her sisters, because that would mean they were all made together for a fate that is as inescapable and as blood-borne as the colors of their skins. She will not accept sisters. No.

What Toast has are four wives. They are her best friends, her true loves, her heart divided into four coils and woven together like the plaits she works into their long, long hair.

She loves them all.

When they still had the belts on and couldn’t make each other come, and mostly didn’t even want to, they sometimes all collapsed in a pile, as often as not under the piano with a blanket thrown over it, and let it be a fort full of soft skin and half-sobbed breaths as they breathed in each other’s pain and exhaled clean love and comfort into their scalps. They would pull Miss Giddy in with them, sometimes, even though she was an auntie and not a wife, and there they would hold each other in a nest and love and love and love until they thought that they could face the world again, just for a few minutes. Angharad wasn’t the favorite wife when it was just them, because not a one of them could ever bear to bring Angharad the pain that being the favorite meant. They loved Angharad for her gifts of protection and strength, not the beauty of her face or the suppleness of her limbs, and went she came to them streaking tears and crying out that it had happened, that she hadn’t bled in too many days, they pulled her close and let her rage and thunder to make up for all the silence and meekness she forced herself to bear.

It is not Before, though. It is After, now, and Toast does not think about Before. Not because it is too hard and she cannot bear it, but because she does not wish to, and now no one can make her do the things she doesn’t wish to do. There is so much that is good here, with the Dag growing rounder and rounder every day and the Heirlooms coming into blooms as big as Toast’s hands, with Furiosa doing politics and teaching them knives, with water rushing lots of times every day, with the last Vuvalina teaching all of them to write and read so they can help her copy down every story she knows and every wisdom in her heart. Someday they are going to go find Max and bring him back, too, and they will all live together and grow strong from each other’s living water.

Toast looks into the desert sometimes and wishes for Angharad’s heartbeat under her ear. But she wouldn’t trade her, no, not even her sweet wife Angharad, for a space under that piano again.

They have a bedtime routine. They work all day long, sowing and growing and watering and learning and healing, and at night they dust each other of all the dirt that clings to them, which is becoming so dark and brown. They rinse their mouths with sweet water and settle down to tell stories while Toast and whatever wife can be spared helps braid their hair. Capable keeps the latest watch, until they coax her down under the one blanket they share. Toast likes to sleep wrapped around Cheedo, with the Dag at her back and Capable on the other side, so that Cheedo is protected from everything. Not there’s anything to fear now but a cool wind, with Capable’s blades and Toast’s fists and the Dag’s hard, cruel mouth keeping them safe.

But in the dark, under their blanket, the Dag’s mouth is very nice and soft as it brushes Toast’s neck and Capable’s eyelids and Cheedo’s cheeks. Toast’s fingers aren’t fists here, because she’s got two hands made to love her wives and make them happy, even if she doesn’t much want to be touched there herself. They kiss her everywhere else, all of them a warm and loving blur of softness and the only tears come when they miss their wife, their Angharad, when they remember to each other the way she broke a mirror once because the _object_ reflecting back at her was not her, because she was not someone’s owned _thing_ , but also the way she spoke of seeds and stars and the music that came out of her, the lullabies and chants and bathing songs, what were the words, remember, remember, don’t let that disappear under the salt, don’t let the fire and blood take that, too.

On the nights they love without touching, they sometimes bring Furiosa under their blanket with them. They hold her head and share all the love they have to spare, because they are together and there is so much of it, so much, and Furiosa has no wife to love and love her and she needs it even more badly than they do. They are happy to give it to her, for all that she has done and all that they do truly love about her. She’s like Toast--she doesn’t want to be touched between her legs--but she lets them hold and kiss her, holds and kisses them, lets them pet her brave and proud head and paint in spare ink the letters of poems on her body, make flowers blossom on her stump. She takes Cheedo’s place on those nights, and Toast likes the way her fragile wife wraps so protectively around Imperator Furiosa, guarding their great and terrible warrior from the whole wide world.

They find scraps of fabric, sew more space onto their blanket, and bring the Vuvalina in with them, wraps her up with them. All she wants to do is hold them and call them her lovely girls, and they want to be her girls, so they hold and kiss her, too, and braid her hair and have her tell them stories and teach them songs, and they teach her Angharad’s songs, too. She teaches them how to make a tent and they sew more and more onto the blanket and sometimes they stand it up, and they’re safe under their blanket.

When Capable talks about Nux, all her wives listen, and Toast’s heart sighs that they might’ve had another wife in him, too. He was not a bad man, that little Warboy, and Toast hopes that he is not riding across some wasteland somewhere but that he is healthy and strong, not chrome but living green, in a place that grows.

They called Toast and her wives ‘chrome’ once, said that they were ‘shiny.’ But they weren’t. They were better than that, better than shine, and they love each other because they grow, because the Dag doesn’t have good teeth and Cheedo freckles and Capable burns a hard and terrible red in just a little sun and Toast farts. She does. She does it and she doesn’t care anymore. They grow hair everywhere and they won’t slice it off, not any more, not for anyone.

Someday a baby is going to come out of the Dag and no matter what it is, it will make them all mothers. They will be mothers, just like the last Vuvalina and Furiosa, and they’ll learn everything about being mothers from them, and the baby will be good. The baby will be good and it will not be a warlord. It will be a whole person and it will help them relearn the whole world.

Toast loves her wives very much. She knows her wives love her. She knows their passion and their joy, Cheedo’s heartbroken sunburst smile, the Dag’s impossible eyes and rapid brain, Capable’s brave fingers kissing and touching and fixing the world, piece by piece.


End file.
